


There is a Very Important Difference Between 'Recording' and 'On-Air'

by raygunnerdown



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Also what's up with those dreams the city council's been sending out lately, Cecil is a little shit when he's horny, Hand Jobs, I mean if you ignore the smell of magnolia and lightning and the swirling tattoos, M/M, Normal Biology, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, There's a penis but otherwise insert your headcanon here, Vaguely Described Cecil, and Carlos is a scientist but he swears like a sailor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raygunnerdown/pseuds/raygunnerdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is more than a little mortified by the indecent (and familiar) sounds he hears on the radio. Flashbacks and a race to the studio ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Very Important Difference Between 'Recording' and 'On-Air'

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go. My contribution to the fandom, however overused and overly-abundant the themes might be.

Carlos likes Night Vale. He likes the sense of community - however odd the members of said community may be - and the sense of belonging. It's the sort of place that takes you in no matter who you are, who you have been.

  
He likes Cecil, too. Actually, he likes Cecil very, very much - and, he thinks, driving down an empty highway with the city lights twinkling far ahead and below, Cecil certainly knows that now. It's been barely three months, but Carlos has found that he can already draw up the sounds Cecil makes when he's out of breath and very satisfied with extreme accuracy, can remember the feeling of long, spidery fingers entwined in his hair, applying just the faintest, most gentle, and yet most  _needy_  of pulls - as though it were still happening. The black ribbon of asphalt rolls away beneath him and the weather plays softly in the background, but Carlos' mind is still in the bedroom, on the lab table, pressed against the wall of the recording studio. He smiles to himself, content.

  
The he frowns, and his smile slips off in a puddle of dread like radioactive slime from the pores of some approaching monster. His imagination is vivid, but unless he has finally succumbed to the performance-enhancing drugs in Night Vale's water supply, it certainly isn't vivid enough to explain what he's hearing, or why what he's hearing is perfectly in line with the sweaty, very vocal events of last night.

  
Oh - oh  _god_ ; Carlos has to physically restrain himself from simply dropping his forehead onto the steering wheel and letting the car drive itself off the highway and into the unknown, where he would at least be unable to hear the quiet end of conversation that had started it all being played on public radio.

  
"Is - is it on?" his own gulping voice comes through the speakers, clear even through the layers of mortification fogging his mind. There's a rustle, like pages being shifted, and Carlos remembers:

\----

It's late. The show is over; Carlos doesn't quite want to leave.

  
The studio is dimly lit, but Cecil's features stand out perfectly, lit gently by some unearthly glow possibly secreted by his skin. One hand on the desk for support, Carlos reaches forward and traces an experimental thumb across Cecil's lips. They're soft, warm. Cecil leans into the touch. His eyes are dreamy, staring at Carlos with a near-reverential adoration as a deep blush colors his cheek.

  
"Sweet Carlos," he whispers, still in his radio voice from moments before, and that's all it takes.

  
Their lips meet like a drizzly morning, all pliant flesh and breaths landing, soft, on each other’s' face. Cecil's hand snakes up to cover Carlos', the other finding its way to the small of his back. A moment passes and the kiss deepens inexplicably; Carlos' next breath is stolen when the drizzle turns to a downpour, a desert storm of clashing teeth as heated skin presses against heated skin. Cecil makes a muffled sound of need, and Carlos responds by loosening the other man's tie.

  
It's only another moment before both are quickly shedding clothing. Cecil drapes his shirt over the rolling chair. Carlos shucks off his lab coat and flannel and tosses them into the corner, then turns with Cecil and pushes the other man up onto the desk, mouths interlocked.

  
"What about," Carlos sighs between wet kisses, "what about the interns?"

  
"Gone," Cecil mouths in return, and Carlos nudges Cecil's legs apart with one thigh and presses himself between them. He leans forward, beginning to wrap his bare arms around Cecil - and then stops, pulls away, and lets a sideways grin tug at the corners of his mouth.

  
Cecil makes another whimpering sound, still poised to wrap his legs around Carlos, trying desperately to rut against the unyielding thigh beneath him. There's a telltale bulge in his slacks that Carlos is trying very hard (he minds his own pun) not to notice - if he does, he won't be able to stop, because Cecil is looking at him with all three eyes now, looking at him like he's a cruel god, and Carlos' half-formed idea does not include unplanned frottage on the radio presenter's desk. At least, not  _just_  that.

  
"Carlos..." Cecil breathes, and Carlos hums in response.

  
"Cecil," he explains, and Cecil's eyes brighten at his name. "I'd like to try something. An...experiment, if you will."

  
Cecil nods slowly. "Anything, Carlos. Anything you want." With this, he rolls his hips forward, and Carlos feels his breath catch in the back of his throat. Just another second, he tells himself. He can hold on to his willpower, just a bit longer, for the sake of science.

  
"Can you - can you make recordings, here? Like,  _recordings_?" He tries to be articulate and hears himself fail miserably, but it doesn't matter; Cecil nods vigorously, understanding immediately, his wide-eyed gaze turning sharp with a mischievous grin. Without saying a word, he slides off the desk and, eyes locked with Carlos's, reaches behind him for some empty tapes.

  
When he turns away to put a tape in, Carlos reaches around his waist and lays a russet-colored hand on his hard-on - no pressure, just the simple touch. The tape receiver slams shut with sudden force, and he grins.

  
"Is - is it on?" Damn his shaky voice. Great opening line for their first sex tape, he thinks. Cecil seems to think differently, though...

\----

The moon glares down from a sky void of all light; speeding along the highway with his cock half-hard with humiliated anger in his jeans, Carlos doesn't quite have it in him to glare back. His mind is reeling, first rejecting the scenario entirely -  _this can't be happening shit this can't be happening_  - and then resolving to kick Cecil's ass when he gets to the station. Doey eyes or no, if that shit did this on purpose...

  
It's dark, the road is empty, and he's trying to ignore the soft, pleased sounds emitted by his radio. He'd turn it off, but there's still hope that this is a dream, that the humiliation is just a part of one of those standard-issue nightmares be gets once a month - like the one where he's naked on a cold glass table, a black-beaked bird circling above and criticizing his life choices as some visceral substance drips and dangles from its maw.

  
Not caring if the sheriff's Secret Police see, he lowers his foot on the gas.

\----

"Please, yes, that's  _perfect_ , oh - "

  
The recording machine is proving to be more than enough of an incentive for Cecil, and both Carlos' scientific intellect and rock-hard dick are thankful for that data. Something primal inside him is dying to test that voice, to see how it sounds when Cecil's down on his knees and begging to come. Carlos is kissing, rocking his hips up and against a performer; what would have been soft hums and drawn-out sighs - mingled with the odd moan of a name - are now complete and articulate pleas. Cecil has his radio presenter's voice on, all thick tones and smooth, lubricated vowels, and Carlos rains open, tongue-heavy kisses down onto that vibrating neck. Their hips grind together again and again, and Cecil works his slender fingers through Carlos' hair.

  
"Ever the performer," he murmurs into a jugular notch.

  
"Just, ah - Just for you, Carlos." His voice cracks slightly as teeth graze over his collarbone. It's a start.

  
Carlos works his way down, taking his time and punctuating each kiss with a stroke along the taught front of Cecil's slacks, smiling as Cecil arches up into the press of his hand. Wanton. Jesus, the things he'd like to do to bring him to the edge, voice completely broken and composed of mainly moans -

  
He wants to know, to have that image and sound filed away for future use, and so he skips the last inch of soft, exposed skin and closes his mouth around the stiff hem of Cecil's slacks. As he undoes the button, his nose brushes against a hip bone covered in swirled black tattoos that seem to shiver at his touch, and his nose fills with the subtle scent of gardenia and copper. Like lightning. Cecil smells like goddamned electricity; somewhere, the part of Carlos's mind that is taking notes (rather than inhaling the sharp smell of electricity and flowers, feeling the head radiated by flushed skin) wonders why this hasn't already been noticed.

  
Gravity takes Cecil's pants. Carlos' two-day stubble rubs against his thigh, and this time he really  _does_  shiver; they lock eyes, and it's not long before Cecil is letting out deep, throaty moans, his his cock framed by full, perfect lips, his shadowy tattoos flickering, seeming to stretch off of his skin. Slowly, with vocalization indicative of pleasure and gratitude and praise, he begins to thrust his hips. Carlos hums gently. He can taste copper and something sweet, like honey - a surprise even now, and some voice at the back of his head mumbles something about "too many variables."

\----

Carlos takes the corner with frightening speed. Vaguely he wonders why there are no flashing lights or shrill sirens; the sheriff's Secret Police has surely noticed. Unless - oh. Unless they understand. Shit, they're probably taking pity on him.

  
Rico's flies by, along with an intense craving for a steaming slice of pepperoni pizza that suddenly washes over him, accompanied by an insidious, creeping fear, and then disappears just as quickly. The road is dark, and the streetlights cast only the faintest of orange glows across his grim face. The rear wheels of his little Prius fishtail on the dusty road, and then he's speeding down the street with tunnel-vision locked on the radio station just ahead, increasingly frantic moans still stubbornly refusing to end.

  
He slides gracelessly into a parking space and slams the door behind him. The door draws nearer with his brisk jog toward it; even in the soft light of the entrance hall his cheeks blaze red as his memory continues where the radio left off--

\----

He moans, long and deep, and the noise comes out thick around Cecil's cock even as it pulses, hot and wet, spilling down his throat. One hand creeps down to his own throbbing erection; the other reaches up to work Cecil through his orgasm even as the black curls and stripes covering his skin lift off completely, just for a moment, a hazy cloud of odd shapes and swirls that would be sinister if not mingled with Cecil's last breathy  _uugh_.

  
Then the lines snap back to Cecil's skin, and the hands in Carlos' hair clench tighter. His own curled fist pumps along his length, then Cecil is pushing him onto his back, tile floor cold against his bare skin, and their mouths are interlocked, and their chests are pressed together - but somehow a warm hand still snakes between them. Carlos moans into the toothy heat of Cecil's mouth (contrast: cold to his back, unadulterated warmth radiating from the man now straddling him); Cecil's thin fingers join his and pull roughly. It's neither smooth nor expected, but when Carlos comes he does so with a sound halfway between a whimper and a shout, lightning flashing behind his eyes and seizing his body.

  
They pant together, gazes held and uninterrupted, no attention paid to the soft hum of the studio's antique recording equipment.

\----

When Carlos throws open the live-room door, blinking "On-Air" sign taunting him even as his lab coat billows around his knees, the recorded post-orgasm breathing is the only sound beyond the pounding in his ears. The room is empty; confused and slightly furious and also generally mortified, he scans the room with wide brown eyes. Rolling chair: empty. Desk: suspiciously bare.

  
Footsteps behind him - he turns, expecting station management, the Sheriff's Secret Police, anything but the long, tattoo-covered arm that languidly drapes itself around his tensed shoulders.

  
"Cecil! What the fu - "

  
Cecil stops him mid-sentence with a gentle kiss. "It's such a beautiful night, isn't it, my Carlos?" he asks smoothly. "I thought my little surprise would bring you here. Though I didn't think it would take you so /long/," he adds, and by the subtle note of stress Carlos is made very aware of the tent in Cecil's slacks.

  
He frowns, ignoring ( _goddammit_ ) his own eager cock. "But, how could you - in front of the whole town - " he gestures to the general area, frustrated.

  
His aura of suave coolness slipping once again, Cecil grins. "Think," he whispers, "with that perfect mind of yours - think about the town on your way here. What did you see?"

  
Just for a moment, Carlos actually does think. And then he keeps thinking, because  _fuck_ , does that mean...? "Cecil," he pauses, swallows, continues. "Cecil, where is the rest of the town?"

  
The other tattooed arm joins the first, and Carlos finds himself caged in against the wall with a very nice voice in his ear. "Does it matter?" Cecil asks, and Carlos decides that maybe it doesn't.

 


End file.
